Mutual Rescue
by RunningWiththeDeer
Summary: An earlier, untold chapter in the life of Rainbird
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:  
  
John Rainbird, Cap Hollister, Orville Jamieson, Don Jules and Rachel are the intellectual property of Stephen King. This appropriation of the characters is for amusement and not for profit.  
  
This fan fiction is inspired by FIRESTARTER...but is set before the incidents in that novel.  
  
MUTUAL RESCUE  
By Running With The Deer  
  
Captain James Hollister checked his watch and waited for John Rainbird to arrive. The door opened as the second hand was sweeping the "IX."  
  
"Good afternoon, Cap," the agent greeted him. As always, Rainbird's voice was mellow and modulated. As always, Cap felt the worm of disquiet stir in his belly, and drew an extra long intake of breath to still it.  
  
March 1. At the beginning of each month, they met this way, unless Rainbird was on assignment. Their standing appointment served a variety of purposes: settling of accounts, discussion of cases pending and resolved, and a kind of checking up. Cap felt compelled to check up on Rainbird, despite the fact that the soft-spoken half-Cherokee was by far the most self-possessed and self-controlled agent he had. That was part of the reason Rainbird scared him. He was, in a word, ungovernable.   
  
This meeting, like all of them, was one-on-one. Cap had attempted to bring Rainbird into the fold at the beginning of his career, but there was too much friction with the other operatives. Something about Rainbird upset them. The most obvious factor was his face. Rainbird had encountered a Claymore mine in his military service overseas. The blast had taken his left eye and transformed that side of his face into a scarred mask. When such a face resided on a body that was nearly seven feet tall, well, it was disquieting, to say the least.   
  
Rainbird was a classic loner. He lived in the Arizona desert, in a house he had built himself. He was known to compulsively collect shoes, as some sort of bizarre compensation for the theft of his father's burial moccasins. Beyond that, Cap knew nothing about his personal life. He suspected Rainbird didn't have much of one. And when he occasionally tried to envision what such a life might entail, he gave up quickly in distaste. Cap had enjoyed a long, satisfying marriage before his wife succumbed to cancer. He looked at Rainbird and could not fathom the man in a relationship of any kind.   
  
There were, of course, professionals for the provision of basic needs, and Cap had no illusions. Rainbird surely availed himself...but one had to wonder how the ladies felt about it.   
  
Rainbird had been kept busy of late, shuttling between Russia and Israel, where he served more as a liaison than an active agent. With his face, he couldn't be seen in the same place too often. And the world seemed to shrink daily. Rainbird was top assassin for the Department of Scientific Intelligence, better known as The Shop, and he also possessed a gift for persuasion. Cap trusted him enough to employ him in matters of Shop disloyalty. In Shopspeak, a "sanction" was a punishment. "Extreme sanction" was death, and it was reserved for the worst turncoats. Cap reflected that an agent who double-crossed the Shop and was discovered quickly could hope to fare better than one who eluded detection for years. Such chronic betrayal was particularly grating to the top brass.   
  
Cap valued Rainbird as much as his fear would allow, and often consulted him on sanction-related matters. There was even an unofficial lingo between them. "Authorized extreme sanction" was when Cap told Rainbird to eliminate someone. "Recommended extreme sanction" was for lesser offenders. He would give Rainbird the suspect's file and assign Rainbird the task of research, to find out exactly how much trouble the troublemaker had caused. If the problem was containable, Rainbird was employed to threaten the offender, either physically or psychologically, depending on the individual. The victim understood that his immediate resignation was non-compensated and non-negotiable, and that if the Shop should hear of any conversations with the news media, it would be the agent's last with anyone. Most such miscreants got the message. Most of them got the hell out of Dodge.   
  
It was a good system.  
  
"I have an assignment for you," said Cap.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Right here in picturesque Longmont, Virginia."  
  
Rainbird waited while Cap lifted a thick dossier from the shelf under his desk. "There's certainly a sanction involved here, but I need you to do some digging so we can determine exactly how...extreme...it will have to be."   
  
Rainbird smirked. "Was a time, Cap, you never wasted a moment pondering 'if.' It was always just a matter of 'when.' It's been a long time since you authorized an extreme sanction."  
  
Cap shook his head with some irritation. "I know it. Political correctness and litigiousness have gotten their tentacles through our doors at long last. We don't dare just knock people off any more. For one thing, we don't have it in the budget."  
  
Rainbird laughed out loud at that. Cap hadn't been joking, which was what made it so funny. "My friend, I think you need to retire before they throw you into a Sensitivity Training class."   
  
"Damn straight," mumbled the chief, his mood unimproved.  
  
"All right. Who are we looking at?"  
  
"Nathan Conroy."   
  
"I am unsurprised," said Rainbird.  
  
Cap grunted. Another reason he valued Rainbird was the assassin's unerring insight into the motives of others. He wasn't forthcoming with praise, and certainly not with friendship, but when an operation called for a joint effort, there were a select few he trusted. Or perhaps just tolerated. Cap wasn't sure. But it was funny how many times Rainbird had flatly refused to work with one agent or another--had expressed pure contempt for the individual--and sooner or later that agent tripped up. On those occasions Rainbird mercifully dispatched them without any I-told-you-so's, but it annoyed Cap. He didn't fancy Rainbird as a one-eyed, one-man polygraph.  
  
Nathan Conroy was a case in point. Graduated from West Point and earned top marks at the School of the Americas. He'd never set foot in Panama, but Rainbird had disliked him from the first, lumping him in with the incompetent, arrogant officers who had been instrumental in the screwup that cost him his face.   
  
Cap's curiosity got the better of him. "Rainbird, tell me. What is it you see in some of these guys? You had Conroy pegged right off, didn't you? What's the quality they have, or lack, that you sniff out?"  
  
Rainbird offered him his trademark predatory grin. "You want me to divulge my professional secrets, Cap? You wouldn't be planning to take over my job, now, would you?"  
  
Cap didn't rise to the bait. He was accustomed to this type of abuse from Rainbird and had learned to keep silent. Rainbird seemed to respect silence more than any other trait. Cap knew how to use it. Which might have been the only thing that kept him off Rainbird's personal sanction list all these years.  
  
"Heart, Cap. It's heart. When you care about something enough...it's heart. Enough to keep you from turning away from a lost cause. From walking out on your wife when she gets sick and loses her looks. From saying yes to somebody who offers you a little green. To care more about your birthright than your bankbook. Heart. Conroy ain't got it. Never had it."   
  
Cap mulled this. Simple enough. And Rainbird was right. Conroy was a weasely little bureaucrat. He walked around The Shop's outfit like a Junior Senator, wearing Izod shirts and schmoozing up his golf scores. Trying to pretend he was something other than a man who routinely dealt in skullduggery and death, like all of them did.   
  
Conroy was in it for the dough. He was the bane of the agency's Human Resources department, constantly bugging them about his pay rate, his vacation, his benefits, his pension. He treated assignments like unwelcome extra homework, and when in the field, he was known to hang back. Cap compensated for this by withholding the good jobs from him and confining him to more routine domestic matters. Conroy managed to complain about this, too. Cap's private name for him was Half-Empty Conroy, given his pessimistic nature and overall lack of spark. Perhaps Rainbird had hit it dead-on: For someone like Conroy, it was only a matter of time before someone on the other side came up with an offer that would make life a little simpler, easier and greener. An offer too sweet to pass up.  
  
"Let me guess," said Rainbird. "Cuba."   
  
Cap nodded, with fresh respect for Rainbird's instincts. Conroy had been spending weekends in Miami (he told his wife he was golfing on Hilton Head, but this deception represented a different sort of betrayal than appeared on the surface). His contacts weren't golfers, or hookers, and they weren't anti-Castro exiles, either. Cap found it almost comical how easily Half-Empty had given himself away. He'd been overheard chatting up the Cuban food at a place in DC, representing himself as an expert on the comida tipica. This had struck Cap as odd right away. Conroy was as Anglo-Irish as they came, and it just didn't fit to have him flirting up the assistants with throwaway lines in Spanish.   
  
"Yes, we've all been enjoying his Ricky Ricardo impression. He thinks we're idiots, apparently. It takes one to know one, I always say. Anyway," he said, tired of the subject, tired of talking, just wanting to go home and take a nap. He pushed the dossier closer to Rainbird. "go do your thing. I don't think we're going to get much. Our reward will be having him out of our hair."   
  
"I'd like to kick his ass," said Rainbird. "He's got a family, of course?"  
  
"They always do," responded Cap. "The proverbial mantle of respectability."   
  
Rainbird said nothing, but took the packet and left Cap with his thoughts.  
  
It was four-thirty on a Friday. As Rainbird strolled through the corridor on his way to the library, he encountered mostly empty desks and offices with their lights out. The custodial staff outnumbered everyone else. People didn't stick around on the weekends if they didn't have to. This was fine; it was his favorite time of the week, when he could go about his work and not be bothered with people he had no use for. He could even light up a smoke in the library, which also served as a computer lab. He knew where to sit so as not to set off the smoke detectors.   
  
He got a Coke from the machine in the hall and held his thumb against the reader at the library door. The high-pitched tone and the green light indicated his admittance.  
  
Rainbird liked it here. It was quiet. The lighting was kind to his eye, and the thermostat kept a reasonable climate. Usually, few people came in here. And those who did were the sort of agents Rainbird liked (or disliked the least, at any rate). They came in here on their own time to do advance research on their assignments. Sometimes they came in to study for college courses they were taking on the Shop's dime. Either way, these people were focused in their work and less given to the competitive sniping that brought out the worst in Rainbird.   
  
He settled into his favorite spot: in a far corner, behind the stacks. Extra counter space, lots of leg room, and privacy. He popped open the Coke, took a breath, and listened. The library was deserted. Fine. He spread the file out in front of him and began at the beginning.   
  
Nathan Conroy was 50, the only son of a soft-drink distributor. Yawn. West Point, School of the Americas, a little graduate work at Georgetown U. Married 24 years, one child, a daughter, who'd been adopted in infancy from a deceased brother. Rainbird did the math. The daughter was now 17, about to turn 18 in a couple of months. Sometimes kids-very young ones or very sick ones-made a difference in the life and death decisions made in Cap's office. Things weren't looking all that rosy for Agent Half-Empty at the moment.   
  
Rainbird booted up one of the computers to continue his research. He would start with a back-trace on all of Conroy's recent airplane travel and transactions with credit and ATM cards. It would take awhile. Rainbird was fishing in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes when he heard voices outside, and then the sound of someone being "greened in" by the thumbprint reader. It wasn't Cap. There were two people, male and female.   
  
The man had a sing-song sort of voice, irritably condescending. The woman sounded young, more like a girl.   
  
"D'you want to use one of those BIG computers?" asked the man.  
  
"Sure," replied the girl.  
  
Rainbird heard the sounds of belongings being deposited on chairs and coats sliding off. His unwanted company was using the equipment at the opposite end of the library. That was a relief, but he still wouldn't be able to smoke now. He stemmed his irritation and turned his attention back to the job at hand.  
  
From what he could hear, the man had left the girl at the computer and gone somewhere else. He heard pages being turned, then the scrape of the chair on the linoleum. A pencil being sharpened. The window blinds being opened, then closed. Get to work, kid, he absently thought.  
  
But his neighbor seemed unable to settle down. He heard the door to the corridor open, a pause, and then "Rats!" exclaimed the girl. The door shut again, and now he heard footsteps approaching. Resigned, he closed the Nathan Conroy file and turned it face down without even thinking about it. He canceled the program that had been about to download. A second later the girl came around the corner and stopped about five feet from where he sat.  
  
He swiveled in his chair and waited for her to be scared. He didn't hear her gasp at the sight of his face (so many of them did), and he lifted his head and made eye contact. That usually got them.   
  
He saw two things, both quite unusual.  
  
First, the girl. She was very beautiful--slightly taller than average, maybe five-eight. Nice figure. He estimated her age at 18 or 19, but her bearing made her look older. As did her dress. It was a sedate navy blue, in a very smooth line that ended below her knees, with about a dozen gold buttons all the way down the front. It flattered her figure, which was quite pleasing to the eye. Pretty calves and ankles, and a pair of good leather pumps. Somebody had been interviewing today, he surmised. And had probably gotten whatever it was she'd been trying for.   
  
Long, auburn hair, big eyes, little nose, very careful makeup. Understated gold earrings. Either this girl had excellent innate taste, or had someone around who did. Rainbird never made an obvious display of noticing the women he encountered in everyday life. But he noticed. Everything.  
  
The second thing he saw was, again, her face. But not the external features. It was the expression.  
  
The girl was looking at him carefully, which was exceptional in itself. People invariably found something else to look at after they took in the eye and the disfigured face.   
  
This girl just kept looking at him. And, to Rainbird's great surprise, she gave every indication of liking what she saw.  
  
***  
  
Lauren forgot about being tired, or her feet hurting, or being thirsty for a soda. She forgot about her fidgety, fussy father, who thought he could help her narrow down her college choices, but who merely got in the way more and more as time went on.   
  
For a second, she forgot her name.  
  
Sitting in front of her was the most amazing man she had ever seen.   
  
He flows like water, was the thought that summed him up. She noted the long lines of his body, the simple clothes that looked as though they had woven themselves together right there on his frame...the bronze skin, shoulder-length black hair tied back with a leather thong, long fingers steepled together upon his chest, and the absolute calm of his face. She noted, but did not dwell on, the external flaws--the missing eye, the burned and damaged flesh. Whatever had happened to him seemed to have been long ago. It had healed as much as it ever would. And what of it? What mattered was what she sensed behind the very attractive exterior. The power and intelligence, the undeniable sexual force of him. It called to her.  
  
"Hello," said the man, and Lauren felt like she was levitating. The voice was even better than she could have imagined, and she wanted to hear more of it.   
  
"How are you?" she responded, for lack of anything better.  
  
"Just fine. Is there something I can help you with?"  
  
"Well," she said, "I need to go out into the hall to get a drink. But I won't be able to get back in. Someone else let me in, and he's not here. Do you think I might knock and have you open the door for me?"  
  
For the first time in her life, Lauren was glad her parents had shipped her off to that stupid, overpriced private school. For three years she had made fun of her upper-crust classmates and their preppy diction...but look at this, the little stinkbugs had rubbed off on her more than she'd known. Just listen to those pear-shaped, Miss America tones! She sounded seductive, even to her own ears and wondered just how this...hunk...was processing it.   
  
He didn't answer her for a moment, and she became a bit uneasy. She hoped he wasn't going to patronize her, the way some older men had a habit of doing. Please, she thought, not this guy. He just has to be nice. Or at least civilized. Please......?  
  
"You're going to use the machine out there in the hall?" he asked finally. She nodded.   
  
Another pause, but he was smiling, and she saw a nice white set of teeth, offset by the deep desert tan.   
  
"Come on. I'll show you something," he said, and rose. Her eyes followed him up, and up...good God, he was tall. Those long legs, like tree trunks. Perfectly proportioned body. And he smelled nice, too. She could tell he smoked, but it was more like woodsmoke than cigarettes. A suggestion of sandalwood, she thought. I'll bet he sleeps in the nude, was the next observation. -Where did that come from? she wondered, amused.  
  
He led the way to the door-Lauren approvingly observed his walk-and held it open for her. They stood in front of the machine.  
  
"What'll you have?" he asked, his finger poised atop the column of buttons.   
  
"Iced tea," she responded. No soda today. No accidental belches.  
  
The man produced a dollar bill before she had a chance to hand him her coins. She watched him feed it into the machine, then heard a loud clunk and a jingle as the can and the change arrived simultaneously. With his right hand, he passed her the cold can. He held out his left hand, and she saw four quarters there.   
  
"Nice trick?" he asked. "It doesn't work with coins, just bills, and sooner or later the vendor will fix it. But for now, drink and be merry."   
  
She laughed. "Thank you!"  
  
He moved back toward the door and his thumb got them into the library again. "My pleasure," he said, and this time his voice was just a tad lower. She looked straight at him again, and he returned the gaze unselfconsciously.   
  
"My name's John Rainbird," he said.  
  
"I'm Lauren Conroy," she replied, and wondered what it was that passed over his face for the barest instant. She thought he paused again, but so briefly she couldn't be sure.   
  
"Nathan's daughter," he said.  
"That's right. My father is here, but he had to make some phone calls. I'm using the computer in here because the dinosaur I have at home takes forever to download anything. I need contacts for colleges."  
  
"Where do you think you'll end up going?"   
  
"I think, wherever I can get the best financial aid. Doesn't much matter where."   
  
"Go where you'll be happy. Someplace with nice weather-unless you're a skier."   
  
"No, I'm not. I like the woods."  
  
"So what's your field of study?"  
  
"Environmental sciences."   
  
"Something you've got a passion for?"  
  
"Yes. But a lot of people tell me I should take a business major. I like consumer affairs, too, so I don't know."  
  
"Do you like math? Follow the stock market and all that?"  
  
"No. It bores me silly."  
  
"Then stay away from the business major."   
  
"I'd have better chances of getting a good job faster."  
  
"Don't believe it. If you look at any company's roster, you'll be surprised how many of the top executives majored in philosophy or art history."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really. Take a major you're familiar with, and you'll get the degree without having to struggle. The object is to get the degree. The paper itself matters more to recruiters than what's on it."   
  
She tilted her head. "What did you major in, John?"  
  
He offered her an ironic smile. "Military science and strategy. Bring your things over here and I'll show you how to get your information faster."  
  
Twenty minutes later, Rainbird had essentially forgotten what had brought him to the library. He sat close to Lauren as she surfed the web, looking at college sites and taking notes. A perfect opportunity to discreetly check her out up close.   
  
When she asked him a question, he placed his arm on the back of her chair and leaned over her shoulder, so that they were touching slightly. He could tell, from the way she craned her face up and smiled at him, that she enjoyed the flirtation as much as he did.   
  
He could think of much worse ways to pass an afternoon. She'd related the details of the interview she'd been on that day, and some of her tame senior-class adventures. She didn't talk about friends much, but when she got onto the subject of her teachers, she became more animated. She related best to people older than herself. His collective impression of her was that of a reserved, rather lonely girl. Someone much older than her chronological age, who wouldn't start feeling comfortable with herself until she was past thirty.   
  
Rainbird was aware of the time passing, and knew Nathan Conroy would have to crash the party sooner or later. When he heard someone outside, he stood and positioned himself behind Lauren, leaning over, on the pretext of pointing something out on the computer.   
  
"Laur?" inquired that same annoying voice from before.  
  
"Back here, Dad," replied Lauren, sounding none too enthusiastic.  
  
Showtime, thought Rainbird, with immense satisfaction.  
  
"Oh, here you-" Rainbird turned slowly, smiling, and took in the sight of a flustered Nathan Conroy. Lauren shifted in her chair.   
  
"Hi, Dad. Do you know John?"  
  
Conroy recovered himself, but far from a hundred percent. He stepped forward and shook hands with Rainbird. "Sure do. Finding anything good on that thing?"  
  
"Plenty. You're going to be busy, driving me places. But I can get scholarships!" Lauren held up the sheaf of printouts.  
  
"Dandy!" said Conroy. "Will you be ready to go soon? Your mom will be expecting us for dinner." His eyes kept cutting to Rainbird's hand resting on the back of Lauren's chair. Rainbird just kept smiling.  
  



	2. Part 2

Lauren watched the scenery go by and felt buoyed by it. Everything suddenly looked green and beautiful, whereas just hours ago she'd looked at the still-dormant trees and thought spring would never come.   
  
She thought of another question-she'd already lobbed several at her father-concerning her new friend. It didn't take a psychic to comprehend that John Rainbird was not her father's favorite person. This alone enhanced Rainbird's attractiveness.   
  
"He said he studied military science and strategy. Did he go to West Point, do you think?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"John."  
  
"Uh, I'm pretty sure he didn't go to West Point. But he was in Panama. That's how he got to look the way he does."  
  
"What, he was shot?"  
  
"No, a mine blew up in his face."  
  
"Oh, God! That's horrible! But he survived," she said, marveling at John's fortitude. She liked the idea of him enduring such a trial and managing to get on with his life. He looked like a tough guy. She didn't know many. She knew jocks in school, but they were rude and smelled sweaty. Besides, they were boys. John was a MAN.   
  
She fell silent, still trying to come up with a way to ask her father if John was married. She didn't think he was-he wore a cool-looking turquoise ring but no gold band-but it would be nice to be sure. Married guys were a big turnoff for her.   
  
"Who's worked for the Shop longer, you or John?"  
  
"He's been around there forever," replied her father. "He must be near ready for retirement."  
  
"Oh? How old is he?"  
  
"I dunno. Older than me."   
  
"Yeah, he's probably got kids my age."  
  
It worked. Her father snorted. "I don't think so! He's not married. What woman would look twice at him? He's a weird character. Nobody likes him. He lives out in Arizona somewhere, with the other reptiles."  
  
Lauren laughed. "What does he do for the Shop?"  
  
Her father glanced at her and started to reply, then stopped. "You know I can't go into specifics about what we do there."   
  
Conroy suddenly felt nervous. Lately, he'd been having funny lapses, forgetting what kind of outfit he worked for. Next to the National Security Agency, the Shop was one of the most closed organizations in the federal government. Security was extremely tight, and employees existed under a myriad of confidentiality policies and other regulations. Bringing Lauren into the library to use the computers had been a major violation of the rules. He knew there were cameras all over the place, so Cap would probably call him on the carpet Monday for that.   
  
He wondered if they'd trace the calls he'd made today, even with the stolen access code. It didn't matter. His friends in Miami had been very encouraging, and soon he could leave this paranoid place altogether, take Kate and Lauren and retire early on the commissions he was making. He was tired of worrying, and tired of the constant pressure to perform. The world had changed beyond his ability to adapt, and he wanted out of the intelligence community. But the family had to be provided for. Resigning early meant giving up a lot of benefits, so it had to be worth his while. He could wait. It wouldn't be long, maybe not even a year. And then he could leave losers like Rainbird behind, once and for all.  
  
They drove on, each lost in a private daydream.  
  
***  
  
Rainbird remained in the library long after Lauren and her father departed. In fact, he didn't wrap things up until after 2:00 a.m., with only one break for fresh coffee.   
  
He briefly considered whether he had lost control somehow, if he was nothing more than a dirty old man.  
  
Then he recalled the encounter in its entirety, and made a mental comparison of Lauren and the sorry excuse for a man she called her father. He stopped second-guessing and proceeded with the new project.   
  
She was very nearly 18. That was good. She'd be out of high school in just over three months. Also good. That was a perfect time frame for making preparations, concerning both Lauren and her father. The Shop couldn't afford making cavalier accusations. Losing agents and retraining new ones was not a simple matter; nor was the cleanup that followed every sanction. A case had to be built-even though the case evidence was often buried right along with the body.   
  
As Rainbird traced Conroy's steps, he was impressed with how well he'd incriminated himself. More trips to Miami and Key West; more contacts; more probable deals. Still, nothing critical that could really bring down The Shop or the country. Rainbird wondered if Conroy understood how insignificant all his efforts were. Conroy probably fancied himself as a real gamesman. It was pathetic. He'd hold out his hand one day, expecting his big payoff, and would get little more than dust. And when he turned around, The Shop would be gone and he'd be out in the cold.   
  
Rainbird wanted to meet Conroy's wife. He wanted to see the woman who would be brought down by her husband's stupidity. The woman who had raised Lauren. He had no sympathy for her, whoever she was. She had, after all, married Nathan and stayed with him.   
  
First, though, he had to report all this to Cap. For now, he'd say nothing about Lauren, but would make his recommendations. When he was sure he had Cap in his corner, he'd reveal what he had in mind. Cap would recoil at first, but Rainbird knew his boss well enough to understand his deep-rooted sense of irony. The plan would work.   
  
Cap's secretary was chatting on the phone, laughing softly, as Rainbird approached her. The look in her eyes hardened when she saw him, and she terminated the conversation abruptly.  
  
"I need to see Cap," he said.  
  
Rachel always got flustered when he spoke to her, but the reaction bore no resemblance to the response he had elicited from Lauren the night before. Rachel simply hated him, and always would. Rachel herself would have trouble identifying the source of her aversion, but Rainbird thought he knew what it was. He'd figured it out one day when he'd sat in the reception area several months ago on a similar occasion. Two men had come into the building within fifteen minutes of each other. The first had been a nattily dressed young man, a Keanu Reeves type, all smooth courtesy. She'd sent him on his way ultimately, since all he wanted was to sell laser prints. She told him she was not interested, but had let him sit and chat her up for awhile, and there was little in the rejection that really felt like one. The second visitor had been a young African-American in Army camouflage and dusty work shoes, who was here on legitimate business with one of the other senior-level agents. He had an appointment, and he had papers. Rachel had kept him waiting, standing, by her desk for several minutes, questioning his credentials, his papers, and the scheduling system she kept on her computer, before she picked up the phone and called the agent, who came out in a hurry to greet his visitor and express regrets at having kept him waiting. Rainbird had pondered all of this as he sat quietly by the potted ficus near the window. Easy to dismiss it as racial prejudice, but he strongly suspected it had more to do with the color of the men's clothing than their skin. Rachel went for the veneer of respectability, every time. The trappings-Cap's military officer's uniform, and the Botany 500 suits that most of the agents sported. She was unfailingly courteous to the other operatives, even Orville Jamieson, who called himself OJ and gravitated toward assignments that allowed him to abuse women. Rachel always complimented him on his ties and cufflinks. But Rainbird, in his old desert boots and faded jeans, gave an impression of indifference, perhaps even disrepute, and it pushed some deep, subconscious button with Rachel, more than just his face, or even his notoriety.  
  
So he withstood her contempt, and waited to be called into Cap's office. It wasn't a long wait. The door opened and Nathan Conroy came out, looking very much like a boy who had been summoned to the old woodshed. His face, including the much-expanded forehead, was flushed, his expression irritated and defensive. He hustled away, and never noticed Rainbird.  
  
Seated in Cap's office, Rainbird efficiently summarized his findings, and commented on Conroy's flustered appearance shortly before.   
  
"Yeah," said Cap, "I had to tweak him. He brought his daughter in last night, let her sit in the library and do her homework while he went back to his office and used the phone. The camera outside in the hall recorded it. Strictly against regulations, and why Security didn't do a better job of stopping him, I intend to find out." When Cap declined to comment about Rainbird's encounter with Lauren, which would also have been observed, Rainbird understood that Cap had checked the first few minutes of the surveillance tape, and Conroy's login on the first computer where he'd set Lauren up. Probably the phone calls Conroy had made as well. That was enough for Cap; he hadn't reviewed the entire tape.   
  
"Thought it might serve as a taste of things to come. Or, knowing him, it'll throw him off the scent."  
  
Rainbird nodded. "He'll assume that if we knew anything damaging about him, we wouldn't waste time dressing him down about unauthorized personnel in a restricted area."  
  
"So how will we approach him?"  
  
"The usual way. Tell him he has no choice but to leave the country. I hear Cuba's nice this time of year."   
  
"Rainbird, I think the man's too stupid to accept those terms. He'll try to strike up some sort of bargain."   
  
"No. Give me, oh, two months, three at the most. I'm getting a clear picture of where his weaknesses lie. By that time, I'll have a lever to use on him. A very sweet one."  



	3. Part 3

Rainbird made his next move two weeks later. Nathan Conroy had a passing acquaintance with a member of the President's cabinet, and had wrangled an invitation to a State dinner for himself and his wife. He crowed about it for two weeks prior to the event, until everyone was weary of hearing about it. Thus, Rainbird knew perfectly well that Lauren would most likely be on her own that evening. A quick call to the White House to verify when the dinner would start enabled him to time his next call, to the Conroy home.   
  
Lauren was indeed alone, idly surfing the cable channels, when the phone rang..  
  
"Nathan Conroy, please." A smooth baritone. The kind of voice she liked; it made her think of John Rainbird.  
  
"I'm sorry, he's not available now," she replied, reverting to her prep-school inflections. "May I take a message?"   
  
"Um, is this Lauren?"  
  
"Yes. Who is this, please?"  
  
"Lauren, you may not remember me. We met at the DSI library awhile back. John Rainbird?"  
  
Lauren felt a grin spreading over her face. Her hand reached up and began to smooth her hair. "I remember you. How have you been?"  
  
"Oh, just fine...sorry to bother-oh, wait a minute. Your dad is at a White House dinner, isn't he?"  
  
"That's right. He said they wouldn't be back until late."  
  
"Why didn't you go along?"  
  
"I wasn't invited," she replied, her tone indicating that this didn't bother her in the slightest.  
  
"Well, what are your dinner plans?"  
  
She wondered if she was getting her hopes up. Could this possibly lead to a dinner invitation from John? Tonight? She felt her pulse quicken.  
  
"I hadn't made any. There are leftovers in the fridge, I suppose..."  
  
His next words made her heart sink. "Well, rummage around in there-I'll bet there's a nice piece of steak, or chicken, or hamburger, or something tasty like that..."  
  
She let a cold note creep into her voice. "Yes, actually, we had some steaks for dinner last night and I didn't finish mine."   
  
"Perfect. Do you have a dog?"  
  
"Yes...."  
  
"Well then, prove you're his best friend. Cut that steak into small pieces and treat him to a special dinner. I'll come by in about an hour and take you to a little place I know in Alexandria. If that suits you."   
  
She resisted the impulse to stammer her thanks. "That sounds like a wonderful idea," she said.   
  
"I'm glad. But do me one favor, please."   
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Don't dress up."   
  
She kept her word and didn't dress up, picturing those casual clothes that looked so right on him. But she did shower, fix her hair and makeup, and try on several different shirts and pairs of jeans until she got the combination right. She was wrestling with a sandals-or-oxfords dilemma when headlights appeared in the driveway. She decided the sandals looked better and hurried to the door. She watched him stroll from the white Cadillac SUV, and again felt a strong surge of attraction. He was pantherlike in his movements.   
  
Oh, she was going to enjoy this evening.  
  
It was actually the first date she'd had in well over a year. Despite the affluence of the school and the community, there weren't that many opportunities. Part of the problem was the parents. All of them were prospecting suitable mates for their heirs, so any time you went out with anyone, you had to go through the smiling interrogation. It got worse when their parents met your parents. Her father never made a good impression; he was quite obviously "nouveau." The only alternative to this structured agenda was "hanging out." And kids in her social strata just didn't do that.   
  
Another part of the problem was Lauren herself. She wasn't outgoing or vivacious enough to feel comfortable in a dating relationship. She was fine with a quiet one-on-one type of thing, but most boys her age weren't. If you were alone with them, they always made the wrong assumption, and things got awkward in a hurry. All in all, the TV made better company.  
  
So she was glad of the opportunity to preen a bit, and welcomed Rainbird as he came into the glow of the floodlight.   
  
"Did you feed the dog?" he asked with an expression of mock urgency.  
  
"He gobbled the steak in fifteen seconds and then tried to eat the dish. He told me to tell you thanks. Would you like to come in?"  
  
Rainbird grew serious. "If you're not ready, I'll just wait here, if you don't mind."   
  
She admired his sense of propriety. Her mother would approve. But she had no intention of mentioning anything about tonight to her mother.  
  
"Never fear, I'm ready," she said, snatching her purse from a chair near the door. "Let's   
go."   
  
***  
  
Bristol's was a folksy coffee house in Oldtown, with big, tall booths in secluded corners, candles on the tables, and a succession of inoffensive performers, who sat and strummed old James Taylor or Moody Blues tunes. The menu was eclectic, with fondue as specialty of the house. You could sit for hours on end and talk, or you could avail yourself of a collection of board games.  
  
Lauren couldn't remember a place that made her feel so comfortable. As they followed the hostess to a booth, she was conscious of how John stood out in a crowd...but realized that no one was paying them any mind. An extra bonus.   
  
"Hungry?" he asked.  
  
She wasn't, but didn't want to tell him, for fear he'd catch on to the fact that her stomach was filled with butterflies. "More thirsty than anything," she replied.  
  
"All right if I order us some beers?"   
  
"Sure," she said, so pleased at the adult treatment, it escaped her that she was more than three years under the legal drinking age...and had never even tried beer.  
  
The server came by and John ordered a pitcher of something that sounded German. While they waited for it, he suggested several items on the menu, and her appetite began to creep back. By the time the drinks came, she was more than happy to order the chicken cordon bleu and Caesar salad. John requested spaghetti and meatballs.   
  
He poured her a glass of beer and hoisted his in a toast. "To the end of school, and new beginnings," he said, briefly touching his glass against hers. She acknowledged the tribute with a smile and took a sip. It wasn't bad, and it did quench her thirst. And after she'd had some more, she was pleased to discover that it wasn't making her feel drunk. She'd heard about people with tremendous tolerance for alcohol and wondered if she was discovering something new and interesting about herself.   
  
"Like it?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," she replied.  
  
"It'll taste even better when the food gets here."   
  
A moment or two went by, and Lauren found herself at a loss for words. John noticed and effortlessly took charge of the conversation.  
  
"How do you feel about leaving high school?"  
  
She realized she hadn't much thought about, being so caught up with SATs and applications. Was there anything to miss about it? Could the future be any more boring and mindless?  
  
"Well, I wouldn't say I've gotten terribly attached to it."   
  
"Why is that?"  
  
She sighed. "It's hard to explain. I guess I don't fit in here. People are very materialistic. I've seen the way some people treat my dad, and it annoys me that people judge you on the basis of what kind of car you drive or who your ancestors were."   
  
"I would say your dad keeps up rather well with the community standard. He plays a decent game of golf."   
  
She offered a bitter sort of smile. "Yes. He took lessons! He thinks that will get him accepted. It kills him that people look down on him because he's Government. And the fact that my mom works. Most of my classmates' mothers don't. Half of them hang out at the school! They wander the halls in their tennis clothes-you'd think they had terminal nostalgia. It's pretty ridiculous."   
  
He measured his words. "So, your father feels inadequate and keeps trying to compensate for that. What about your mother? Do you think she resents working, or does she have a career she cares about?"  
  
"She wavers back and forth. It's incredible. Every other week, she makes fun of the stay-at-home moms, and then she turns around and gives my dad hell because of the work he does. They're-" she stopped, not wanting to air a load of dirty laundry.  
  
"Would it help if I told you that most married couples have conflicts? The super-successful people on your block probably get ulcers over issues that wouldn't sound too unfamiliar. Half these people are very heavily in debt because they're borrowing on credit to keep up the lifestyle. It gets strenuous."   
  
"I know," she answered quietly. "One of my classmates-his father committed suicide after he was audited by the IRS."  
  
"Why do you think your mother disapproves of the work your father does? And don't worry, this conversation won't leave this table." Rainbird meant what he said-although there were a million ways to extrapolate any juicy tidbits and work them into his report on Conroy. He didn't think Lauren would tell him anything new anyway. His objective was to gain her confidence.  
  
"I'm not sure. She doesn't talk about it. But-well, I get the impression that if my mom and dad were the only two voters, their votes would cancel each other out."   
  
Rainbird smiled. The girl was clever. "I get it. They're on different sides of the ideological fence."   
  
She brightened. "Hey-let me show you something neat. I'll be right back." She slid from the booth and helped herself to an orange from a decorative fruit display. When she returned, she seized her knife and carefully peeled the orange until she had a narrow strip. She reached into her purse and took out a pen. Rainbird watched, fascinated by the enthusiasm and concentration she showed, as she marked one end and then the other in small printed letters.   
  
"Okay," she said, holding up the strip of orange peel. "Watch this. Over here on the left I've written Communism/Liberal/Left Wing. Got it? And now, over here on the right, Fascism/Conservative/Right Wing. Total opposite ends of the spectrum, right? Now watch." She took the strip she'd peeled and placed it back on the orange so that it wrapped around again.   
  
"Check it out now," she said. Rainbird saw that the two political "extremes" were now next-door neighbors on the orange. "The only way you can stay away from these two extremes is to take a moderate political stance," she said.  
  
"Your Social Studies teacher?" he asked.  
  
"Yes and no. He's from Georgetown, teaching this semester. It's for college credit. But he makes it really interesting, and it helps me to understand my parents a little more."   
  
"Thinking of taking a Political Science major?" he asked.  
  
"No way! I just like learning these ideas. This made more sense to me than anything I'd learned in years. And I'll teach it to my children."   
  
"You taught me," said Rainbird. "I'd never seen that before, but it does make sense."   
  
She smiled, glad to have won him over, and happily sectioned the orange and shared it with him. He smiled back, but mentally, he was busy taking notes. Something Lauren had said-something he'd very likely be able to use in his report to Cap.  
  
***  
  
Two hours later, as they pulled up in front of the Conroy home, Lauren scrutinized the windows, hoping her parents hadn't arrived back early. She was satisfied that she'd beaten them back, though John had assured her that White House dinners weren't known to be hasty affairs.   
  
"Would you like to come in?" she invited him, even though she knew all hell would break loose if their parents walked in and found him there.  
  
"Another time, okay?" he countered, mentally promising to return to the house very soon...when Lauren wasn't home.   
  
"Okay." She drew a long, happy breath. "Isn't beer supposed to give you a buzz? I drank half that pitcher and never felt a thing. Maybe it was the food. It was great."   
  
"Only beer with alcohol will give you a buzz. That was alcohol-free."   
  
"Oh, really?"  
  
"You're three years from street-legal, my dear. And your father is licensed to carry a weapon."   
  
She laughed and shook her head. "I don't know how my dad is at work, but at home he's totally harmless."  
  
He escorted her to the door. "Thanks for a fun evening," he said.   
  
"Yes. I hope we can do it again soon." There was a mildly awkward pause; she was clearly waiting for him to say or do something.  
  
He opted for an innocuous squeeze of her hand, accompanied by deep, meaningful eye contact. "I'll be around," he said. Then he waited, smiling, until she had gone inside.  
  
***  
  
Rainbird was relieved to be alone with his thoughts. By nature, he was hardly the chatty type, and he was out of practice with small talk. But he did enjoy Lauren's company. She was like him in many ways-an introvert, for whom socializing was optional. He thought they might forge a workable bond before much longer.  
  
But there was groundwork to be laid. He sped back to The Shop, again mostly deserted on a Friday night. Back to the library, where this time he was able to light up in peace. For Lauren's sake, he thought he might give up cigarettes entirely. He wasn't the addictive type. But there was time before he'd have to make that change.   
  
The Shop shared a good bit of its databases with the National Security Agency, the State Department, and the CIA, so within 30 minutes, Rainbird had collected reams of information that confirmed his earlier suspicion. It was a mother lode of data, and it made him smirk to know how much the Justice Department would give...just to know they had it.   
  
When he had what he wanted, he called Cap at home. It was late, but Cap was a notorious insomniac. The only place he ever slept well was church, which accounted for his regular Sunday attendance.  
  
"We need to meet," said Rainbird. "My final report on Project Half Empty is ready."  
  



	4. Part 4

Katherine Conroy worked in the administrative offices of a national home-improvement supply company. The pay and benefits were excellent, but the work was boring and without status. Therefore, her relief at being able to leave work early compensated somewhat for the disquiet produced by the phone call she'd gotten that morning.  
  
A Shop agent she'd never heard of was requesting a private conference in her home at noon. She'd agreed without hesitation. Driving home, she pondered what it could mean, but still didn't worry much.   
  
If it was about Nathan, it would all be over and done with by now. She'd be going home at the normal time, to discover his body, perhaps...or nothing. One day he'd simply go missing. So it couldn't really be about Nathan.  
  
And she seriously doubted it could be about...the other thing. No. The trail clearly led to Nathan. No one had followed her, and she was an expert on covert surveillance.   
  
Still. She wondered why anyone from The Shop would want to meet alone with an agent's wife.  
  
Kate did a quick scan of the street as she approached their four-bedroom ranch. There was a green Toyota Camry parked at the curb. Two people inside, one much taller than the other. She slowed only enough to make the turn into the driveway, then shut off the ignition and sat for a moment, thinking.  
  
They wouldn't send two Shop agents to make an arrest. But something about those two men, sitting quietly...  
  
She took a long breath, then got out of the car. Instantly, the door of the Toyota opened and the occupants emerged. The driver, she didn't recognize. But the passenger...  
  
She'd never met Rainbird face to face. But from Nathan's accounts through the years, she felt she knew him. He was a legend. A dark legend.  
  
Rainbird was a hitman. Everyone knew that. But would he bring a witness for that sort of work? It was all too puzzling, so she decided her best course of action was to let the meeting happen.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Conroy," said the other man, who carried an attaché case. She glanced at both of them. Rainbird was certainly a scary-looking sort and he surely knew it. The smaller man, however, had his own deadly aura. His face was sallow and pockmarked, and what passed for a smile was little more than a grimace. He regarded her from under heavy brows.  
  
Nathan had told her that Rainbird was a lone wolf-that no one in the Shop had any use for him except Cap, and Cap was simply afraid of Rainbird. But Kate, who had years of experience in reading body language, measured a number of verbal clues and understood immediately that these two men had not only worked together on numerous assignments, but that they also had quite a close and respectful working relationship. But she still believed that Rainbird could handle any use of force on his own. So again, why two of them?  
  
"Can I help you gents?" she asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She didn't like government, no matter what, and could not be civil to them. The White House dinner Nathan dragged her to earlier in the month had been almost unbearable. The opulence. The conspicuous consumption. The self-congratulation. It had been strictly business, and she had gotten her business done, but she could have done without the rich food and the shallow Capitalist pigs all sitting around the table. These two unfortunates standing in front of her didn't make a fraction of the pay of a typical Cabinet member; undoubtedly they worked much harder and took more risks. Of course. They were mere laborers for the system, and didn't even realize it. How sad that their brainwashing made them incapable of seeing the reality for themselves.  
  
The shorter man produced his official ID and kept it suspended in the air until she had carefully read it.  
  
"Don Jules? I don't believe my husband has ever mentioned you," she said.  
  
"We don't travel in exactly the same circles, ma'am. Do you think we might sit down inside?"  
  
"Oh, of course," she replied, and led the way. All the while noting that Rainbird had never bothered to produce credentials of any kind.  
  
"Well. I haven't had lunch and suppose you haven't either. Could I fix us something?"  
  
Jules replied, "Actually, we've eaten. But you go right ahead and have your lunch. We can wait."   
  
She motioned them to seats in the less formal family room, which was only half partitioned off from the kitchen. She was hungry enough to be distracted by it, but searched for something simple and portable, and chose a frozen bagel and cream cheese. A few seconds at the microwave and a minute at the toaster, and she was seated in an easy chair, waiting to hear what the agents had to say.  
  
Jules, sitting closer to Kate, cast Rainbird the briefest of glances, then opened the attaché. He selected a single sheet, which he passed wordlessly to Kate. Then he closed the case, and sat back, looking bored.  
  
Kate examined the paper and felt everything in her mouth go dry, including the bagel and the cream cheese. Chewing and swallowing became an arduous effort, much akin to running in a terrifying dream. She was forced to close her eyes to concentrate, and finally got it down. She placed the uneaten portion on the floor near the chair and never thought about it again.  
  
She felt an overwhelming sense of shame. Not for what she saw on the sheet of paper, but for her undisciplined reaction to it. She knew, had known, for over thirty years, that such a moment could come. She was not in a jailhouse. She had not been spirited away by masked men. There were no implements of torture poised over her body. She was perfectly safe, and well, and fine, in her own home. To a casual observer, she might be reviewing a mutual-fund prospectus. If this was how she reacted to discovery in such innocuous circumstances, she would surely need several months of retraining once she returned to...her real home.   
  
But it was still an unpleasant shock. Perhaps the reason was, that all those years ago at training camp she'd been young, single, childless, and at her idealistic peak. Now she was, well, let's face it. She was middle-aged and soft. Inwardly she renounced such decadent symbols as this four-bedroom house, the cars, the clothes and the rich food, but she'd gradually gotten used to having them.   
  
And even more than these, she felt possessive and protective toward her family. Especially Lauren, who was so innocent of all this.  
  
Forcing herself to look away from the paper, she responded as she'd been drilled. "This is very interesting," she said. "Please explain to me what it means."  
  
"Hold it!" said Jules with a smile. "Let's see if we can follow along." Reaching into the attaché, he pulled out yet another document that Kate recognized instantly. A small white-bound book with a title in Spanish. "Yes, page thirty-nine. I've already bookmarked it. 'Your captors may produce documents that implicate you-they may contain your likeness, identification number and evidence of your activities. This is a simple intimidation tactic, and it is important to pretend ignorance of the documents and their significance. An acceptable verbal response is, "This is very interesting. Please explain to me what it means."'" Jules' Spanish was fluent and precise, yet still managed to retain sarcastic little traces of his native Texas. He extended the field training manual in her direction. "Do you have your own copy, or would you like to borrow mine, Señorita Goldworth-Miranda?"  
  
Rainbird, still as the upholstery, said nothing and made no sound, but Kate, looking at him, saw the barest trace of a smile form on his wrecked face. Of course, she thought. Jules does the talking, Rainbird takes over later. Was this how it would end? Here in her family room?  
  
Kate felt suddenly weary, and abandoned any scripted response. "I've worked at the same job for twelve years. My daughter is an honor student. My husband works as hard as he can in your organization. I wish we could just be left in peace. That is all I have to say to you."   
  
Rainbird leaned forward a bit in his chair as Jules, now looking angry, addressed her.  
  
"I beg to differ, Mrs. Conroy. Katie...Katarina... Now, I must say first, there is a vast difference between the quality of your husband's work and yours. It took us maybe two months to catch on to Nathan. But identifying you as the deep little mole that you are required a lot of late hours. Was Nathan selected for you, or was it...true love that brought you together?"  
  
The words stung because they were true. The people in Havana who had installed her here had provided strong guidance in helping her choose a suitable foil. They'd continued to help her over the years in molding Nathan, shaping his point of view and encouraging his deceits. She learned early on that she could appeal to his greed, his weakness, and pride. She suspected that her husband actually believed he was the first successful double agent in Shop history.  
  
Inwardly she sighed. Of course they had found him out with little effort.  
  
"Well?" she asked Jules. "You came here with an agenda."  
  
"As did you!" replied Jules cheerfully. "But-on to business. Tell me, Señora Conroy, have you not been homesick? Your husband has had many opportunities to hobnob with your fellow countrymen, but you have been chained to your duties as wife and working mom. Don't you think it's time you had a change of scenery? Trade in all that dreary snow for sun and palm trees year 'round! Nathan will make an excellent tour guide, and help you to adjust to the minor changes that have taken place in Cuba all these many years. I say 'minor' changes, since while our decadent society has plunged headlong like a dolphin through the industrial age, the atomic age, the space age, and now the information age, your beloved homeland has barely budged since 1962. For those who are nostalgic, or just resistant to change, I can think of no better refuge. It does get stressful here, doesn't it? Having to make your own choices, build your own destiny, and keep up, with no real help from the government? Wouldn't it be nice to go back to Cuba, where you have perfect job security, and don't even have to job-hunt! The government does it for you! House-hunting? The government does it for you! Child-rearing? The gov-"  
  
"Yes!" Kate cried out, snarling and clenching her fist. "It would be nice. Go ahead and send us back. Your 'land of the free' is a stinking garbage pit of waste and pointlessness."  
  
Jules regarded her mildly. "Glad you see things our way. On that note, I will be going. My colleague here will be able to discuss the details of your relocation." He stood, with his attaché, and pretended to look around. "Oh, feel free to keep the summary sheet from your 700-page dossier, and that handy training manual. We've got plenty of copies back at the Shop." He nodded slightly toward Rainbird, and departed quietly.  
  
Rainbird stood unhurriedly and moved to the chair previously occupied by Jules. "Mrs. Conroy, your 46th birthday is Saturday, June 16th, correct?"  
  
"Yes," she replied.   
  
"Perfect. Then you and your husband can set that as your departure date."  
  
Kate felt off-balance. His words weren't making sense to her.  
  
"You mean-we all just leave? You put us on a plane?"  
  
"Well, yes, that's basically it."   
  
She shook her head, as if to clear it. "There's a catch here somewhere. I can feel it."   
  
Rainbird shifted in the chair then, to face her directly. He smiled, and it frightened her.  
  
"There is a catch, Mrs. Conroy," he said softly.  
  
Lauren received her high school diploma on Saturday, June 9th. She sat patiently through the parade of speeches, listened to the short list of accolades in her name, waited in line, received the scroll, and took one last look out over the sea of faces, young and old, mostly white, and felt little emotion. Her parents were there, looking strained as they had for weeks now. No other relatives. She supposed her real parents were "looking down at her and smiling," as she'd been told more than once. If so, that was nice. Nothing more.  
  
She scanned the hall again, and realized she was looking for John Rainbird. She'd hoped to see him again following their dinner date, but he had not called, and she wondered if maybe he'd asked her father for permission to see her and her father had refused. There was no reason to think so, but she was very disappointed not to hear from John, and her parents were acting weird. She'd heard them up and moving about at all hours of the night. Her mother had started taking days off from work, and her attendance had always been perfect. Worst of all, her mother had started staring off into space, crying in brief spurts with no explanation...and had begun grabbing Lauren in fierce bear hugs at odd moments. Yet, by the same token, her mother had become remote, seeming to shut down whenever Lauren asked a question.   
  
Lauren had plenty of questions. She wanted to know why her mother had begun sending her out on errands that took hours. They weren't difficult errands, but she got the distinct impression that her mother just wanted her out of the house. And yet, she was always admonished to return at or near a given time. What was this? It wasn't her birthday-that had been last month, and a very routine affair. Okay, her mother's birthday was coming up, but she doubted the behavior had anything to do with that.   
  
She wasn't sure, but it appeared that some of her things were missing. There were some old journals and writings she'd filed away, magazine clippings...now she couldn't find them. Just odd things. Or some of her jewelry would be missing, but would turn up a few days later, and she'd swear she'd looked there.   
  
Her father, usually as transparent as spring water, had become morose and uncommunicative, and sometimes she thought he was crying in secret, like her mother.  
  
She wished she knew John better, so she could tell him some of this. Normally, it didn't bother her to have so few friends, but normally she could figure out her parents. John was so easy to talk to. Their one evening had gone by so quickly. She'd spent the ensuing weeks daydreaming about him. She was so grateful the real work of school was long over, or her grades would have suffered.   
  
Sometimes it was as if there were a "Rainbird magnet" inside her. Every song on the radio, every old movie on TV, every borderline-erotic novel she read (something she'd never done before) seemed to relate to John. She knew he was Native American, and she knew he lived in Arizona. So she'd started watching old Westerns, projecting herself into any storyline that featured a sympathetic male Indian. There weren't many that she liked. She researched the Cherokees on the Internet, but realized his parentage probably included Hopi, Navajo or Apache to account for his desert origins.   
  
The day after graduation, she woke early with a wonderful idea. She was eighteen; she'd just finished high school; she had the whole summer ahead of her. Why not travel? Was she really going to sit around here for three months? She'd thought about working, but neither the Shop nor her mother's employer was offering summer jobs or internships this year, due to the economy. Out of pure boredom, she'd checked with some local banks and offices, but most wanted experience, which she lacked. Stores advised her to reapply later in the year, as the holidays approached.  
  
Well, she wasn't hurting for funds, so why not do something noble? Why not go out to Arizona and volunteer to work with the kids on the reservations? She was sure some church in the area would have an outreach program. And even if that didn't materialize, she could get a cheap hotel room and just drive around seeing the sights.  
  
Maybe John would have some ideas for things she could do.  
  
Maybe John spent his summers out there in Flagstaff.   
  
Hmm.  
  
The idea energized her-it sounded so right. She sprang out of bed, got dressed and went downstairs, where her mother was busy rearranging the kitchen cabinets. Boxes, cans and utensils were spread across every inch of counter and table space. From the stairs, she watched her mother moving like a sleepwalker, and again felt the waves of worry and depression coming off her.  
  
But it was a beautiful day. Maybe her mother would feel better if Lauren were out of her hair and she didn't have to take care of her. Maybe she and her dad were burning out and needed some one-on-one time together. Maybe...maybe absence would make the heart grow fonder, because it looked like familiarity was breeding contempt these days.  
  
She continued into the kitchen and asked her mother if she needed help. Her mother lifted her face-it was full of grief. Lauren took a close look and realized her mother had actually aged in the last few weeks. She was sure of it. There were definitely a lot more gray hairs on her head. Either that, or she wasn't plucking them out any more.   
  
"I need to throw out a lot of things here. If we aren't going to use them, we should throw them out. We have too many things as it is. It's criminal. People just accumulate things and give no thought to whether or not they need them." Her mother spoke these words in a monotone. It was a speech Lauren had heard before-she thought her mom was probably a closet socialist-but there was a distinct undertone of despair this time.   
  
"Say Mom? I was thinking. I have nothing to do this summer, and it occurred to me, maybe it would be a good opportunity to travel. I've been accepted at seven colleges and narrowed it down to four, and I have until mid-July to accept. I can bring stamps and mail an acceptance in from wherever I am. I can drive out to Arizona, maybe, and stay at a cheap motel-"  
  
She stopped because her mother's face had twisted into a mask of insanity. She raised her hands, buried them in the hair at her temples and shrieked, "No! You can't do that! You can't! You - have - to - stay - HERE!" She punctuated the last sentence by pounding her fists on the kitchen table. "You can't go anywhere! You have to stay RIGHT HERE!" The boxes and cans on the table jumped in rhythm with her mother's blows. Lauren backed away. "All right, Mom-we'll talk about this some other time."   
  
Her mother took a few steps toward her, still looking panicky. "Lauren, I am deadly serious. You must not leave here! Please don't get any ideas about running off! Please!"  
  
"All right, Mom! But please don't scream at me, and please think about going to see a doctor," Lauren said. For it had occurred to her, out of the blue, that her mother was most likely in the grip of menopause.   
  
That stopped her mother. Kate stood with one hand on the back of a chair, swaying slightly. "What?"  
  
"A doctor, Mom. You're turning 46. I saw a commercial about hormone-replacement therapy, and they were talking about how menopause sneaks up on you. They said it's easy to be in denial about it!"   
  
Kate stared at Lauren; her mouth was open and her eyes looked almost crossed. Then she threw back her head and uttered a loud, chilling laugh. She kept laughing and laughing. Finally she sank into a chair, still cackling, and as Lauren tactfully left the kitchen, she heard her mother muttering, "Diós, Diós!"  
  
Her father had been off golfing as usual when Lauren had that bizarre encounter with her mother. She kept to herself and waited until he returned. After golf was always a good time to approach him, because he was generally in a mellow mood.   
  
Lauren watched Nathan drive his CRV into the garage and prepare to stow his golf gear. She knew she'd better try to talk to him now before he went for a shower and then got involved with Mom.   
  
She knew as soon as her father saw her, he'd give her one of those weird looks. Lauren wondered why both her parents had taken to scrutinizing her lately. There were all these long, sad looks. As if they expected her to be going away soon and not-  
  
She wondered if it was just the fact that she'd be going away to college. She had declined to apply at anyplace local. She wanted the dorm experience. In the back of her mind, too, was the remote possibility of seeing John, without having to hear her parents' complaints. She knew them well enough-she never discussed Rainbird with them, but could predict that the age difference would alarm them. Even if Rainbird were someone they liked.   
  
So maybe that was it. She knew also that their marriage was on shaky ground, and if she went away, they'd be stuck here with each other. They-  
  
Another leap of thought. Her mother. Practically begging her not to leave. Looking tired, worn...beaten down?  
  
Was there a SERIOUS problem between her parents? Domestic violence, perhaps? She hadn't seen or heard anything, and her father was generally so mild-mannered it was nauseating, but maybe things had deteriorated to the point that there were threats. She'd seen Court TV enough times to know that sometimes wealthy married people got bored and found it easier to kill one another than to go through a messy divorce. Maybe her mother suspected that her father was planning to do her in.   
  
And wouldn't it be easy? She didn't know for sure, but she had a good enough idea what went on at the Shop to realize how convenient it would be for one of her dad's friendly co-workers to, well, maybe make a little pocket money on the side some night.  
  
When Nathan emerged from the car, he saw her standing a few yards away.  
  
"Hey, sweetheart. How are you?"  
  
"Dad? Do you love Mom?"  
  
Nathan's face was very different from Kate's. Kate had sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a mouth that could kiss or hiss, at will, with equal effectiveness. Nathan was all circles-big round eyes, a big round, balding head, and a big, round, open mouth. He walked around in a perpetual state of uncertainty, even on a good day, and when you presented him with a problem, it was as though a little gray raincloud had sprouted over his head, like in a cartoon.  
  
He approached her slowly, and he looked like such a child-so open, so vulnerable, so totally useless in a crisis-that Lauren wanted to slap his face.   
  
"You'd better love her. You'd just better." She walked away quickly because she didn't want to hear his voice.  
  



	5. Part 5

The week passed. Lauren did her best to avoid her parents, and this wasn't hard. She used her graduation gift money to purchase a computer with Web TV, and spent most of her time tinkering with it in her room. Following her mother's lead, she emptied her closets and dresser drawers and rearranged everything. She went online to decorator websites and began thinking of how she might decorate an apartment of her own. Maybe a dorm wasn't realistic. She was an only child who liked her space. Did she really want to surround herself with strangers? She thought most college students rented apartments off-campus as soon as they could.  
  
The secrecy continued. Her mother moped around the house, but was never still. She cleaned constantly, emptied drawers, and packed clothes for charity. Lauren was reminded of someone preparing to go on a long journey. Her mother always seemed to be checking--making sure she wasn't leaving anything behind.  
  
Whenever the phone rang, her mother would screech "I'll get it!" sounding uncannily like Edith Bunker. Her parents were so vigilant about the phone, Lauren only got to pick it up once. And that time, the caller simply hung up. Her mother hovered by the phone, and when Lauren shrugged and hung up, she thought Kate would faint with relief.  
  
Something was building in the house-a feeling of mounting tension. Lauren was certain that there would be some sort of development in the next few days. It couldn't come soon enough, she thought. Her parents were going nuts and threatening to take her with them.   
  
On Saturday, June 16th, Lauren was awakened before her customary eight o'clock alarm. Her mother came into the room quietly, and sat on the corner of the bed, waiting for Lauren to open her eyes.  
  
Lauren was a sound sleeper but not a deep one. Concern for her parents had made her especially aware of sounds and disturbances in the house, and she came awake easily.   
  
"Morning," whispered Kate, looking very tired, but somehow at peace.   
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
Kate smiled sadly. "As much as I can be. I need you to do something this morning. Put on something pretty. Take your time. Come downstairs when you're ready."  
  
Lauren couldn't read the look on her mother's face. Mischievous, as if concealing a happy, soon-to-be-revealed secret, but underneath, the same mournful tension.   
After the door closed, she lay on her pillow for another minute, thinking. Well, whatever it was, it would break up the usual weekend monotony. She'd play along.  
  
Dress nice. Well, the first order of business was making sure she had a decent pair of stockings. Typically, she went through them like water, with a pair lasting long enough to be worn twice if she was lucky. She was delighted to find a sheer gray pair in a bottom dresser drawer, still in the package. Good. That meant she'd be able to wear the dress she already had in mind.  
  
It was a playful-looking thing, uncharacteristic of her usual style, and it had run her quite a bit of money. Mid-thigh, undyed linen, with leather latticework across the bodice and up the short sleeves. She'd worn it once, to a school function, and it had made her feel confident and upbeat. The cut was perfect, accentuating the right spots, minimizing the wrong ones.  
  
With just enough time for a quick shower, she hurried and got ready, deciding to forego any makeup other than some lip color. She was more concerned about her hair, and very grateful when it cooperated with the hairdryer and the brush. She put on some sandals and a pair of pearl earrings, and went downstairs.  
  
About halfway down, she caught sight of her father, craning his neck to see her coming. He turned and nodded to someone behind him, then went to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. He had the same tense look as her mother, but otherwise seemed his usual self. He wore his normal weekend attire--khaki trousers and a golf shirt.   
  
He took her by the shoulders and drew her tightly to him. "I love you. Just want you to know that," he whispered, with a sad sort of smile. This was a surprise; she didn't know precisely what to say, and he let her go, with a light pat on her back, before she could formulate a response. When he stepped to the side, she received her third surprise of the morning. John Rainbird stood in the doorway to the dining room and oh, didn't he look  
good! He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, a nice compliment to the bronze of his skin. New-looking jeans, a new pair of leather boots...he looked as she'd envisioned him on their many imaginary dates.   
  
She walked toward him unhesitatingly, and he bent his head with a smile of greeting. He was obviously very happy to see her, too, and this delighted her.   
  
"Well, hello John," she said, conscious of how she was dressed, automatically inserting a note of seduction into her voice.   
  
"Hi, Lauren," he responded, thrilling her again with that deep, musing voice. His eye did a quick scan of her figure. "You look...very nice," he said quietly. His admiration was utterly genuine, and she responded to it with a wide smile.   
  
Rainbird reached a hand toward her shoulder. "Let's go in the dining room," he said, guiding her in front of him. Her parents stood together and there was a third man waiting for them. She'd seen him before, now where was it? It came to her: He was the Shop chaplain. He'd officiated at a memorial service for Fred Sherman, an agent killed in a Beirut truck bombing. Why was he here? Her mind rapidly paged through possibilities, and she concluded that her parents had decided to renew their marriage vows. Sure. They'd been going for counseling over the last few months, she knew. Well, nice. Okay.   
  
But what on earth was John Rainbird doing here? That part made no sense whatsoever. Her father loathed him.   
  
She thought some more. He might be serving as the chaplain's bodyguard, or maybe his driver. Sure. These days no one was safe from terrorists or political extremists. The chaplain must have received a threat of some sort, and this was how the Shop protected him. She smiled inwardly. Her father must be thrilled to have John in the house.  
  
"All right," said the chaplain, taking a quick, all-inclusive glance around the room. "Shall we begin?" He, like her parents, looked ill at ease, as though preparing to do a job that was not entirely to his liking.  
  
She and Rainbird were halfway across the room from where the chaplain stood.  
Rainbird offered her his arm and she took it for no other reason than she was charmed by the gesture and more than happy for an excuse to touch him. She enjoyed the feel of his big, muscular arm, and felt the heat of it through his shirt. Mmm. Rainbird escorted her to within a few feet of the chaplain, who was facing them directly. Her parents remained off to the side.  
  
Isn't this funny? she thought. Almost like he and I were getting married. I wish! She had no idea what was going on here, but it certainly was interesting.  
  
The chaplain, holding a Bible bound in dignified black leather, cleared his throat. "Friends, we are gathered here today to join John and Lauren in holy matrimony," he said.   
  
Lauren was not especially troubled by this. She instantly assumed she was dreaming. So far this morning, nothing had seemed precisely real. I'll play along, she thought once again. Not a bad dream. But maybe it's time to turn over in bed.  
  
She moved as if to disengage from Rainbird, and he placed a large, warm hand over hers, indicating that she should stay put.   
  
She sighed. Okay. Sure. Whatever...  
  
The minister gave a rather rote recitation of the meaning of marriage, and Lauren paid scant attention. She was thinking about John, and how good his arm felt under her hand. Time seemed to have stood still, and she felt rooted to the dining room floor, as the chaplain moved on to a new phase of the service. Then there was silence, pierced by her mother's sharp voice.  
  
"Lauren! The man just asked you a question!"  
  
She froze, still convinced that this was all a dream, but believing her mother was attempting to wake her up. She blinked, expecting to "surface" at any time now, back upstairs in her bed. But nothing changed. She, her parents, the chaplain, and John were still standing together in the dining room, and she was still wearing the same dress. The dream state began to fray at the edges.  
  
She forced herself to listen to the chaplain, asking "Do you, Melanie Lauren Conroy, take John Rainbird to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, forsaking all others, till death do you part?"  
  
Well, she thought, so far as I know, there's only one proper answer to this question. "I do," she replied, marveling at how even and strong her voice sounded.   
  
"Do you, John Rainbird, take Lauren....."  
  
Lauren lost track of things again, glancing at her parents, who looked grim and sick. She felt John's body shift; he was retrieving something from his shirt pocket. She recognized two wedding bands and followed the proceedings well enough to extend her left hand at the appropriate time and watch John place the gold ring on her finger. Then, for the first time, he let her disengage her hand from his arm so that she could convey the ring that he'd given her to hold. She slipped the ring around his finger and it went on easily. She wanted to hold his arm again, but he was facing her directly now, and the minister was concluding the service.   
  
"I now pronounce you husband and wife, this covenant to be sealed with a kiss."  
  
John bent toward her; she stood on tiptoe slightly to reach him. It started as a diffident sort of kiss, but then he reached an arm tentatively around her waist, and she felt herself respond. Despite the confusion and the sense of unreality, it surely did feel good to taste this man's mouth and breathe in the intimate scent of him; to feel his broad shoulder and a few strands of his long hair under her fingers. If I'm really married to him, she reflected dimly, that means we're going to... The thought made her look directly into his eye. He was looking back at her the same way, and she saw a conspiratorial smile beginning there. The look said Yes, we are. Soon.  
  
They released each other, reluctantly now. Lauren saw her parents still standing there, frozen, and wasn't sure what to do next.   
  
Once again, Rainbird made the first move. He turned to the chaplain. "Let's sign those papers," he said. He touched Lauren's arm and led her a short distance away, to seat her at the dining room table.   
  
She saw that the chaplain seemed to be attending to her parents. He was talking to her mother in such a manner that suggested he was comforting her. Kate wasn't crying, but she looked far from happy. After a few more moments of whispered conversation, her father gently led her mother into another room.  
  
The chaplain sat with them at the table; they each signed the form that would render a marriage certificate within a few weeks. Lauren noted an Arizona address and felt a small thrill. Slowly, finally, the peculiar events of the past month were starting to make some sense.  
  
The doorbell rang. Rainbird excused himself and went to answer it. Four Shop agents entered, and Rainbird indicated the room where Kate and Nathan had gone. The agents went there, and shut the door.   
  
In the dining room, things were calm and still. Rainbird gave the papers back to the chaplain. Lauren observed him handing him some bills as well. The chaplain said thank you and good luck, and then he left.   
  
Rainbird gave his full attention to Lauren. "We can go now," he said in his quiet voice.  
  
"I'd better say goodbye to my parents," she said.  
  
"You can't. But they'll be fine."  
  
"Well, I'd better pack some things."  
  
"You don't need to."   
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Completely sure."  
  
She believed him. Maybe she was under his spell...all she wanted to do was get into his SUV and drive off with him. None of this seemed real. It was nice, but hardly real.  
  
They walked across the lawn together, but unlike the last time, there was a hint of urgency in his movements. He held the door and assisted her in. He was behind the wheel in a moment, and they were out of the driveway immediately-he'd parked the SUV facing the street.  



	6. Part 6

At first, it seemed like just a pleasant drive. They passed her old school, and he slowed a bit to view it. Neither of them spoke, and after awhile, Rainbird turned on the radio, avoiding news stations and settling for oldies. Lauren didn't object. Her musical tastes were eclectic.   
  
They moved onto the Beltway, and Lauren absently watched the road signs. She sat up straighter, however, when they bypassed the entranceway to I-95. Then it occurred to her to wonder...  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
He turned to her with a small smile. "Where the scenery's good. How much of this region have you seen?"  
  
"Some, but it's been awhile since I did any sightseeing. And I haven't had a vacation with my parents in years."  
  
"Have you ever gone camping?"  
  
"A million years ago, with the Girl Scouts."  
  
"Did you enjoy it?"  
  
"I don't remember...are we going to camp out?"  
  
"If you don't have any objection."  
  
"No," she said. That was the extent of their conversation for a long while.  
  
They headed west, and then southwest. Traffic was light, the morning sun moderate. They traversed the state in an hour or two and were approaching White Sulphur Springs when the weather began to change. Clouds increased, and occasional sprays of rain dotted the windshield. Lauren had little to do, and caught herself dozing. She attempted to remain alert, looking around the interior of the truck. She noticed the ashtray in the dashboard. It was empty and looked very clean. That made her think of John's smoking...and the taste of his mouth on hers. She looked at the gold band on her finger. For some reason, that reminded her of her stricken parents, frozen in the corner of the dining room, while she recited marriage vows. Hold on, she thought.  
  
What is this? What am I doing? Is this some kind of joke? I don't think I'm dreaming after all.   
  
Rainbird glanced at her, preparing to ask if she felt like stopping for breakfast. Something in her face cautioned him. When their eyes met, he saw a hint of fear and distrust.  
  
Keeping his voice neutral, he said "You haven't eaten a thing. Why don't we stop awhile?"  
  
She nodded. He pulled in at a full-service rest stop, under a large, shady tree. She saw a large, covered picnic area, clean and empty.  
  
"Okay to eat out here?"  
  
She nodded again.   
  
"How hungry are you?"  
  
She shrugged, unable to process the question.  
  
"Oh, I think your appetite will pick up. Go on, freshen up if you like, and I'll meet you out here."   
  
Still in passive mode, she headed for the comfort stations like a sleepwalker.   
  
Rainbird watched her go, as he walked toward the little diner. He suspected that she was starting to really think about what had happened that morning, and before long, she'd be in a panic. He couldn't blame her. She was a smart girl, and here he was treating her like the heroine in a silent movie. Spiriting her away from her home and family with no explanation.   
  
But it was too soon to come clean with her. If he did that, she might insist that he take her home, and the whole plan would crumble. Not only would he be deprived of her company, but if she had contact with the Conroys, she'd have to wrestle with her sense of loyalty to them. The last thing he wanted was Lauren letting herself be deported to Cuba. No-that was completely unacceptable.  
  
They would be camping in the Smokies tonight, an obscure little site he liked, just north of the Georgia state line. He had no specific plans for the two of them, but knew that if she were still in a resistant state of mind tomorrow, it would be too late. The Conroys would be long gone, even if she bolted and made it all the way back to Alexandria.   
  
He thought that if they could make it through to tomorrow morning without incident, she might be more accepting of the situation. They didn't have to consummate the marriage just yet. He really preferred to have that happen in Arizona, at the house. But if necessary, he thought he could sway her in that direction, and then use it to his advantage. It all depended upon her.  
  
For now, the priority was keeping her docile until they got to the campsite-- by then it would be dark. For that, he had come prepared.  
  
  
Lauren stood alone in the ladies' washroom, shivering slightly in the damp morning cold. All was very still outside, except for the occasional sound of a car passing on the highway. She studied her reflection in the mirror over the sink. The dress still looked good, as did her hair and makeup. She kept staring at herself, trying to get her thoughts in order.   
  
What had happened this morning? It had gone by so quickly, and made no sense. Her mother had gotten her out of bed, invited her downstairs; she had apparently married John Rainbird, and now they were out on the road, preparing to get breakfast.  
  
Her parents...why had they agreed to this?  
  
She knew it must have something to do with The Shop. What other explanation was there? But given how little information she'd been given about her father's work, it was very difficult to reach any conclusions. And her mother...how did she fit into this?   
  
Perhaps...perhaps her mother was sick. She recalled the uncharacteristic emotional outbursts of the past weeks. Maybe her mother had cancer, needed some drastic treatment, and felt she couldn't take care of Lauren any more. Of course. That must be it. No wonder her mother had reacted so irrationally when she'd made that tactless comment about menopause.  
  
But I'm eighteen, she argued with herself. If I were eight, maybe. But I don't need to be "taken care of." Just the thought that she'd been passed to Rainbird for safekeeping sparked a moment of keen resentment. If her mother were sick, her father would need all the help he could get coping with the situation. If that were the case, Lauren belonged at home.   
  
And John. Was he friend or foe? This had to have been his idea, somehow. She could not possibly imagine her father initiating a marriage to this man he so obviously disliked.   
  
Try as she might, she could not make sense of it. She sighed and made her way out of the restroom. She lifted her eyes, and on the plain board ceiling of the entryway, she saw a small colony of bats roosting in a dark corner. They didn't scare her, but more than anything, this touch of the absurd helped convince her she wasn't dreaming. She spent another minute studying the sleeping bats, then thought it might be better to get back outside. She was finally starting to get hungry.  
  
A quick glance showed John setting up at one of the picnic tables. As she approached, she wondered how much he knew, and how much she could ask. She'd never felt any fear of him before. She'd always thought they had a nice friendship going. So why should she be shy now?  
  
"Do you think this will be enough?" he asked, indicating a fairly large selection of fruit, a buttered bagel, a container of yogurt and a large orange juice, already poured. She had to smile. He'd brought her more food than he'd gotten for himself-all he had was a sausage biscuit and coffee.   
  
"It's fine, thanks," she said, sitting across from him. She took a bite of the bagel and suddenly felt quite hungry. The orange juice was fresh-squeezed and she held herself back from chugging it. By the time her appetite abated, everything was finished but a few pieces of fruit. She rinsed out the empty yogurt container at an outside faucet and used it to store the leftovers. John neatened up the table.   
  
"All right if we walk a bit?" he asked. She nodded, and they strolled around the perimeter of the rest area. There were still only a few travelers here, and the weather continued looking undecided.   
  
"Where are we going to camp out?" she asked, and he told her, since it would make no difference if she knew the location.   
  
"And then Arizona?"  
  
"Yes. I think you'll like the house." He was encouraged by her look of interest.  
  
They had come nearly full circle around the facility. At the entrance to the restroom, she showed him the bats she'd seen. John took note of her enthusiasm and felt himself respond with affection...and the beginnings of something else. He pushed the feeling aside, content with the awareness that despite her doubts, she still enjoyed his company. That counted for a great deal.   
  
She followed him willingly back to the truck.  
  
"You know," she said, "I can share the driving, if you like."   
  
"Great," he said. "I'll let you know if I get tired."  
  
Rainbird drove the truck out of the rest area, back onto the Interstate, and continued on the meandering westward course. As they traversed West Virginia, Rainbird made small talk, but kept it very light. Lauren wasn't chatty as she'd been on their one date, but neither was she silent. However, before they crossed over into Kentucky, he glanced over and saw her head lolling gently. The light sedative he'd slipped into her orange juice had taken effect.   
  
Good. Rainbird turned up the radio volume slightly and hit the gas. On the map, it didn't look like a long journey, but this interstate ramble amounted to more than 600 miles, and the day was waning. It had been a long day; Rainbird had been unable to sleep the night before. Even if they got an early start tomorrow, they'd still have to spend one more night on the road before arriving home. The weather complicated things by changing its mind every 50 miles or so.   
  
He was grateful to arrive at the site shortly before midnight. He'd had to detour. The road he remembered had been rerouted as improvements were made in the national parks. He'd worried that his favorite spot would be overrun with trailers...but it was as remote and desolate as he recalled. Lightning and thunder echoed far off, then closer by, but he had camped here before and knew how sheltered it was. As Lauren slept, he hauled a lightweight but sturdy tent from the back of the SUV and set it up efficiently. He then built a fire, having foreseen possible rain and packed a bundle of wood in the truck.   
  
It was time to disturb Lauren. He opened the passenger door softly and undid the seat belt. He assisted her from the truck, noticing how her face and hair subtly glowed in the firelight. As he'd hoped, she was not alert enough to ask a lot of questions, only to walk on her own. The campsite had a privy; it was disused but clean. He showed her where it was and waited for her to return.  
  



End file.
